


slay the wicked

by fav_littleleaf



Series: Sixth Form AU [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Misgendering, Physical Abuse, Porn with Feelings, Self-Harm, Teacher-Student Relationship, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Transphobia, a fucking shit ton of feelings, aka not pwp lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29220990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fav_littleleaf/pseuds/fav_littleleaf
Summary: After the deaths of his parents, Jon struggles with self-harm. Elias doesn't want him to hurttoomuch, though, so he's forced to take matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Sixth Form AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092527
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> content warning: this story contains graphic self-harm, intense and explicit transphobia/bullying (contained to ch 1), and of course Elias glorifies and sexualizes all of it (mainly in ch 2). tread carefully if you choose to read this <33
> 
> this world isn't -exactly- consistent with the rest of the works in this series, but I wanted to throw it in here anyway for the similar circumstances/feelings and relationship. it has a lot of elements in it that I wanted in wonderfully made (aka part 1), but haven't been able to make it work there yet. so think of this as an AU-adjacent extra lol. 
> 
> aNYWAYS this has been challenging to write I really hope you like it *throws it at you and hides in embarrassment/simultaneous desire for validation*

The first time Jon cuts is with the tab from a can of Coke after he finds out his mother has died. Just a nick on his thumb, a little drop of blood that blossoms into a jagged crescent before dripping down his finger like a single, viscous tear.

He puts a bandage on it before they come to take him away, and the secret is forever his.

* * *

The second time is less messy, more quiet, in the dark under the bathroom sink. Jon prefers the first time.

* * *

Living with his grandmother is… different. It’s like having a ghost in the house: never directly in sight, but its presence lingers in the form of tupperware dinners, creaked stairs, and piles of used books that appear on his bedside table. A friendly enough ghost, but he prefers to occupy spaces other than home. Spaces where the silence does not suffocate him.

So he sits in the school library, where the silence is benign, punctuated by occasional whispers and chirping birds from the window, the rolling creak of book carts as they pass him by.

When the librarian kicks him out of his cosy corner at half six, he sighs and gathers up his things. He folds his Snoopy blanket into thirds and places it gently into his bag, over the history and chemistry textbooks. The fading afternoon sun shines against his back. He could try a walk to the neighbourhood library; there’s still more work he needs to do.

As he leaves the library and turns towards the exit, a chorus of shouting and heavy footsteps tug him from his thoughts. Jon instinctively recoils, changing route even though the sounds are coming from the direction he needs to go.

He feels the heat leave his face when he realizes.

Gym practice gets out this time on Wednesdays. 

The thought kicks him from his sluggishness. Jon tears off down the hallway, his heart racing to match, rucksack slamming against his back in protest. If he could just make it to the next turn, he could wind around and avoid — 

“Hey, bitch!”

He tries to summon everything inside himself to run faster, but he’s no match for them. He glances back to ascertain his position relative to his assailants, but pays dearly for it when he crashes headlong into a bulletin board full of posters. They flutter around him as a few drawing pins come flying off it, and he’s forced to change tactics.

Prepare his body for impact.

Shove the impending dread away into a space tucked away somewhere near his stomach. 

It’s better there, where no one can reach it.

His limbs are pliant when he is yanked to his feet and turned around, shoved into the lockers with a metallic _crunch._ Aside from a momentary snap of his neck, the pain is muted.

A stodgy, red-faced boy glares down at him, his fist trapping Jon by the collar. “What did we tell you about your uniform, little girl?”

The words register in the fewest number of synapses required for comprehension, and nowhere else. Defiance bubbles up in him like a cage around his heart.

“Leave me alone, Gabriel,” Jon growls.

Laughter erupts from behind him — there might be three, four of them, more just like him, if Jon were able to see clearly. Jon sucks in a breath, willing his throbbing pulse to settle. As a reward, he gets a repulsive whiff of garlic and sweat.

Jon coughs, straight into the boy’s face.

He didn’t mean to, but it has a beautiful effect. Gabriel recoils, and the rest of them stop laughing, except for one.

“Are you sure she’s not a boy, Gabe? That’s pretty gross.”

His relief is short; Gabriel redoubles his hold on Jon. He knocks Jon’s arms at the elbow and in a flash of pain, his rucksack falls from his shoulders. The new position gives him leave to pin Jon directly up against the lockers, his feet dangling just short of the ground. The impact leaves him dizzy, the words distant. Fuzzy.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Gabriel hisses into his face.

He’s not really sure how _he’s_ the one with the nerve right now, but he bites his tongue down, hard. He feels the blood rise in his mouth, sticky and coppery.

“If you don’t come to school tomorrow wearing a skirt like _you were born to_ , you’ll regret you ever existed.”

Jon breathes in. “Let me _go_.”

The boy digs his fist further into Jon’s chest. The raised vents of the locker jab at his back painfully, rattling with the force. His other hand takes hold of Jon’s throat.

“I’ll let you go when you decide to stop triggering everyone else with your bullshit.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he senses movement. He closes them, briefly, trying to comprehend what sight cannot, trying to breathe through spiking tendrils of fear and tight pressure on his windpipe. 

Static surges around them in a wave. His vision becomes blurry, distorted everywhere he tries to see.

Footsteps, gaining on their location. _Good, precious footsteps._

“You’re right,” Jon wheezes.

“Erm, Gabe?”

“Shut _up,_ ” the boy snaps, without looking at the person who spoke behind him. His beady eyes are on Jon’s only. “What’s this? Is the baby finally coming around?”

“Yes,” Jon says. Gabe’s fingers loosen a little around his throat. “You’ve been right all along. I just want attention.”

The footsteps are getting louder.

“Gabe!” 

_“Let me go!”_ Jon screams, in the loudest, highest pitch he can manage.

Several things happen at once. Someone seizes Gabe and hauls him back, and enraged mutters ripple through a muzzy, spinning world. He can’t make sense of them before he’s crumpled on the ground, pain searing through him from impact. The static disappears instantly, leaving him alone once more, but instead of his vision returning, everything goes black.

And they run — they’re running, far away from the one who was born to never be himself.

* * *

Jon returns home to silence. He drops his bag on the floor, kicks his shoes upside down across the hall. His mind is white noise but there are whispers at the edges of words that he doesn’t want to hear.

He turns on everything he can find. The telly. The tea kettle. He doesn’t fucking like tea. The loudest music he can find on Spotify. The pot on the stove. Just to watch it smoke, to hear it boil.

When his grandmother scolds him he curls into a ball, shoves his fist into his mouth, and _screams._

The silence in its wake descends on him like flies to a carcass.

_Jon! Jon! Are you okay? What’s happened to you?_

He despises his body, would sooner peel off his entire skin by hand and dump it in the middle of Epping Forest than live a single second in it unchanged. 

_Jon, your throat, it’s… we should get you to see someone…_

He finally gets up for the first time in… who knows how long it had been, on that cold, darkened floor? He tears through his sock drawer and finds _it_. Tucked into the corner: a rusty, old thing that he stole from his grandmother’s washroom.

He does it in the dark. Just one mark, just to feel it sink into his skin, an old friend saying hello. Watches the blood trail in a single, perfect drip down the inside of his arm.

Jon does it again, and again, and again, until his forearms are shining with blood. It’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen: the dirt of his soul brought out into the shimmering open, touched to light like candle-flame to gasoline. Tearing, biting, snarling pain that the _blood_ feels, not himself. It cries for him. It burns for him.

This is the fourth time, and it is perfect.

* * *

The next morning feels giddy. 

The white noise in Jon’s brain has settled into something more like pink noise: softer, milder. He does not look in the mirror, leaves the extent of his injuries to chance. The tenderness at his neck aches when he grazes it with his tie, but his blazer covers everything else. Out of sight? Doesn’t exist.

In class, he answers questions with an enthusiasm that outdoes even himself. There are more sighs and little glares in response, but maybe that’s just because he’s noticing more: the way the sun shines on the blond girl’s hair, the little motes of dust it carries within its beam, the anxious twitching of the boy with round glasses next to him. The way the silver bracelet on his wrist brushes against the cuts.

The way the gentleness in Mr. Bouchard’s voice, hidden under cold eyes and a three-piece suit, invites _just a little more._

And Jon gives it, gives all of him, like a cavern inside him has opened up even though the wounds on his wrists are closed.

His fingers curl around the razor in his pocket, and he smiles.

* * *

Jon finds a different spot in the library this time, one where he can be sufficiently alone but still seen and heard. His head throbs after a long, full day of keeping his head whirring, lest it stray to memories he’d rather leave untouched.

The descent compounds on itself when he searches for his history books to review that day’s lesson. They’re not in his bag where they should be. At the realization, he clutches at his left wrist.

Panic rises in his throat. He must have forgotten to put the bracelet back on; after the stimulation got too much in class, he’d placed it gently on the desk. How could he _do_ such a thing? How could he be so fucking careless?

Jon runs.

Class hadn’t ended that long ago — if he goes fast enough, he could blend in with the crowd, slip into the classroom, find his things. Come back like nothing happened.

That _had_ to be where it was. If it wasn’t… he couldn’t even fathom.

He makes it back to the classroom in record time and shoulders open the door. Carefully, in case there’s anything hiding. The sun is still shining through the dust motes, quiet and sublime.

“Hello, Jon.”

Jon jerks at the greeting and turns to find Mr. Bouchard, smiling at him, apparently mid-packing up to leave. He clears his throat. “Mr. Bouchard. I’d just forgotten my books, sorry, I’ll get out of your way —”

He cringes inwardly, and tries not to think about how his voice gets embarrassingly high every time he speaks to Mr. Bouchard. He looks around for the desk he had been sitting in, but spots nothing but an empty surface. His heart seizes in his chest. Had Gabriel or one of his goons taken them? Today was supposed to be a _good_ day, damn it. He grabs at his wrist automatically, and the pleasant little sting grounds him.

A hand on his shoulder interrupts his spiral. “Ah, yes. I think I have what you need.”

Jon spins around to face Mr. Bouchard, pulling himself away from his grip. His touch is _much_ too soft. 

He follows Mr. Bouchard’s gaze back to the desk next to them, where his history textbook and two novels are stacked on top of it, next to Mr. Bouchard’s bag. 

There’s no bracelet.

He has half a mind to grab them and leave, but Mr. Bouchard is standing between them, and he’d need to either lean into his space _well_ more than he wanted to, or otherwise walk awkwardly around the desk to reach it from the other side. 

“Are you doing all right, Jon? You seem… different… than usual.” His gaze travels down to Jon’s jaw and neck, pointedly.

“I’m fine,” Jon mutters.

Mr. Bouchard doesn’t seem to believe him. He’s watching him so intensely that Jon feels like he’s being x-rayed. He desperately wishes he would just hand the books over.

“Are you sure?” He raises his hand as if to touch Jon, but seems to think better of it and withdraws. “If you need something, you know you can talk to me, right?”

He does know. That’s exactly the problem.

Being alone, _lonely,_ because no one is there for him is one thing. But being lonely because he _chose_ it?

“You’re the last person I want to talk to,” he snaps. Then, softer: “I would like my books back. Please.”

Mr. Bouchard sighs. He picks them up and holds them out to Jon. “The offer stands.”

Jon takes them and shoves them in his bag without a word.

As his hand reaches the doorknob, he hesitates. This room is the last place he wants to be, but… he can’t _not_ ask. 

He turns back, and Mr. Bouchard’s eyes are on him instantly, as if they’d never left him. “Where you found the books… was there a bracelet there?”

Mr. Bouchard tilts his head. “I didn’t see one, Jon. My apologies.”

“I-It… it was my mother’s.”

Jon doesn’t know why he said that. He doesn’t wait for the sympathy on Mr. Bouchard’s face or the saccharine lull of his voice; it would break him.

He flees.

* * *

In retrospect, Jon should have known that wasn’t the end of Mr. Bouchard’s questioning of him. He always knew much, much more than he should. The third time, he doesn’t bother biting his tongue.

“How did you find me here?” 

“Perhaps you could tell me how you gained access to a locked room,” Mr. Bouchard says. The words are threatening, but his voice is mild. 

“I needed a safe place,” Jon says, looking down into his notebook.

If Mr. Bouchard noticed that he answered a different question than the one he was asked, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he walks over to Jon and sits down in the desk next to him. 

He leans forward into the aisle between them, close enough that Jon gets a whiff of his cologne. He resists the desire to turn towards him, to close his eyes in wonder and wear the smell upon him like a blanket.

“I worry for you, Jon.”

“How many times do I need to tell you I’m fine?”

“You know I care about you. Enough that lies won’t dissuade me.”

Jon shuts his notebook more forcefully than necessary. He shoves it into his bag, prepared to leave the room. To clear his head of Mr. Bouchard’s scent and the way he looks at Jon, like he fucking matters.

It’s all lies.

“Jon,” Mr. Bouchard says softly, holding out his hand. He doesn’t touch him. “I’ve brought something for you.”

Jon crosses his arms. “What is it this time? Tea? Chocolate?”

He doesn’t answer. Just digs into his pocket and produces something small, offers it in his hand.

Jon has only just recognized what it is — the shining silver links, the golden moon and star, the engraved _S_ in its center — when Mr. Bouchard withdraws it from reach. Jon inhales sharply.

“Hold out your hand,” Mr. Bouchard whispers.

“Where did you find that?”

“Does it matter?”

A wave of desperation rises over him. “Give it to me, please.”

_“Hold out your hand.”_

Jon stares at him. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes burn into Jon with an intensity that makes him feel like crying. Why is Mr. Bouchard doing this? Why does he have to make him feel so goddamn eviscerated at every moment? Does he _know?_

Jon can’t just get up. Can’t leave his mother’s memory behind, not like that, not ever.

He offers his arm, wrist down. His right arm, where there are fewer scars. 

He’ll pretend this is normal, pretend everything is okay. That’s the only way to _make_ it okay.

Mr. Bouchard takes hold of his wrist, gently pressing his thumb over the bone, and folds back the fabric of his blazer and shirt. Jon closes his eyes at the touch and inhales deeply. The warm feeling of skin against skin is unfamiliar, and he hungers for it, wishes that the feeling would never stop — exposed secrets be damned.

The touch disappears for a moment before coming again, this time with a twinge of cold, smooth little chains against his wrist. The clasp clicks into place and the bracelet slackens, but Mr. Bouchard doesn’t let go of his hand. His fingers trace over the raised welts on the inside of Jon’s wrist, and Jon can’t contain a shiver, cannot look away from where their hands are joined. 

As soon as Jon feels the slight pressure announcing Mr. Bouchard’s intent to turn it over, he snatches his hand back.

Jon holds his hand to his chest, with the bracelet over his heart. “Please don’t,” he whispers, not daring to look into Mr. Bouchard’s eyes.

“Jon.” It’s gentle, more than he deserves.

“Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear it.”

There’s a little pause before Mr. Bouchard responds. “What do you think I will say?”

Jon just shakes his head. He brings his other hand up to cradle his wrist, like crossing his arms over his chest could actually _protect_ him from anything. 

“Listen, it’s all right. We all need ways to cope, don’t we?”

Jon snaps his head up. He searches Mr. Bouchard’s eyes for any sign of disingenuity or mirth, but there’s nothing there but that steely blue, perpetually seeing more than it allows itself to be seen.

“You’re not upset?”

“Of course not.”

“You… won’t tell anyone?”

To this he is silent. Jon waits, tapping his foot against the metal leg of the desk.

Finally, Mr. Bouchard sighs. “I should. I have a legal obligation to, Jon.”

Jon puts his face in his hands. He’s not sure this was worth the bracelet, after all.

“But I think that we can cut a corner or two if you make me a promise in exchange.”

There’s a shuffling sound and a tap on the desk, and Jon opens his eyes to a small white card looking up at him. It’s a business card: _Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute._

Jon looks over at him, incredulous. He’s still leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped. He looks up at Jon, his lips pulled into a taut line, his eyes shining with something Jon can’t name. All he knows is that he wants it, that he can’t have it. That he lacks the capacity tear his gaze away.

“If you need help, I want you to call me.”

“I — what?”

“Promise me, Jon.”

“Yeah, alright,” he says. He has no intention to do so, but Mr. Bouchard doesn’t need to know that. “I promise.”

“Good,” Mr. Bouchard says, smiling at him. He places a hand over Jon’s once more, over his mother’s bracelet. “Sometimes hurting ourselves can be cathartic. But I wouldn’t want that to be… permanent. Not for you.”

The implication behind his words is as cosy as it is ominous. Mr. Bouchard wants to _protect_ him, something that he doesn’t care to do for everyone. He wants to touch him, wants to be near him.

Jon can’t remember a single person who’s ever wanted him that way.

He can’t bear it.

* * *

The nightmares have been coming often, but this one is a dream. A reward.

Mr. Bouchard is touching him, his hands tracing up Jon’s neck, over his fluttering pulse, gently rising to caress his jaw. He smiles, whispers Jon’s name as Jon nuzzles into his palm. 

Jon sighs into his embrace, tilting his face up so he can press his cheek against Mr. Bouchard’s and wrap his arms around his neck. Mr. Bouchard lifts Jon up with an arm under his knees and laughs against his skin, twirling them round among a vast, seemingly unbound darkness.

Jon laughs too, kissing along Mr. Bouchard’s neck, and lets out a surprised little noise when Mr. Bouchard turns his head and kisses him on the lips. The heat of his mouth makes Jon dizzy, and he parts his lips for him, soft and yielding and aching for more.

Mr. Bouchard lets him down, and Jon instantly tucks into his side. Beyond them, a light shines from under a closed door.

“Come with me,” Mr. Bouchard whispers, and offers his hand.

Jon’s heart squeezes in his chest — he wants to be wherever and whenever Mr. Bouchard is — but before he can take the proffered hand, the image twists.

The world isn’t quiet anymore. It screams.

He recognizes the voices. This dream is familiar, too. He’s shoved against something hard and metallic, the breath knocked out of him. Panting, begging to be let go. A heavy, suffocating web of fear that tangles in his hair and fingers and legs.

The shouts are directed at _him_ now, and suddenly he’s on the ground, suffering blows to his chest and stomach, being choked until he can’t breathe. There are so many of them that he can’t tell from which direction he’s being accosted.

_You don’t want to have a chest, bitch? We can take care of that for you._

It’s not clear which are his limbs anymore, or whether they are even attached to him. He looks down through swollen eyes, then cries out in terror when he sees: legs awash with blood, flattened like a raccoon to pavement, bent at angles not known to human proportions.

He can no longer run.

Jon wakes with a gasp, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his neck and forehead. His eyes are wet too, and he swipes at them with his sleeve.

_It’s just a dream. Just a dream,_ he tries to reassure himself.

The incessant throbbing at his temples demands attention. He shoves his hands down his body, just to prove to himself that it’s okay. That none of it was real.

He finds his legs still attached and takes a deep breath in.

But as he continues to explore his skin, he finds that the worst dream is existence. Everywhere they marked in his dream is a tender spot on his body. His chest. His stomach. His neck. His thighs. 

_Jon! Jon, what’s happened to you?_

Bile rises in his throat. He twists off the bed, trying to contort his body in any way possible to relieve the pressure in his gut.

The impact as he collides with the floor does nothing to knock the shouting in his head. He breathes hard, shuts his eyes against them. He cannot shout. Cannot wake his grandmother. This is not anyone’s but his.

_Oh, look, she’s crying!_

_Waiting for Daddy Bouchard to come find you?_

Laughter, high-pitched and jeering.

Then a whisper, placed against his ear:

_He won’t save you._

Jon retches on the floor, his stomach spasming, but nothing comes out. He crawls, dragging useless legs along behind him, his elbow burning through the carpet with the effort. Towards the dresser, towards the bottom drawer.

He needs it now, needs to reclaim his body. To make it _his_ again and to find solace in the pain of being consumed at his own hand. A place where he can scream _Stop it!_ at any time and it will.

Jon balances on his elbow and forearm and wrenches the drawer open, tearing through socks wildly with his fist. He’s shaking, sweating, pounding so hard he can hear his heart in his ears.

There’s nothing there.

A sob that was tucked into his chest escapes his throat.

_Where is it?_

On his feet now. A frantic search of the rest of his drawers reveals nothing. His bag, his school bag, he swears he had brought it to school — maybe in his uniform pockets — some gum, crumpled up pieces of paper, a pencil with the tip snapped off… 

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Except a white card, folded and dog-eared: _Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute._

He spreads his fingers over the material, momentarily spellbound. Even after being in his pocket for a while, the cardstock is smooth, pleasing to the touch. A green eye is emblazoned next to Mr. Bouchard’s name. It stares up at him the same way his real eyes do, prickly and uncomfortable.

He turns it over in his hand.

_Call me anytime, Jon.  
_ _x Elias_

Jon throws the card as far as he can and turns away from it, curls into a ball on the floor.

He’s sure Mr. Bouchard didn’t mean at two in the morning, mid-panicked writhing on the ground. But the card whispers to him all the same, as if it could be sentient.

What if he did call him? What if he let someone in for once? What if he had no place else to turn?

With his heart still pounding, he drags himself over to it, picks it up. Fishes around on the bed for his phone.

He dials the number.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: this story contains graphic self-harm, intense and explicit transphobia/bullying (contained to ch 1), and Elias glorifies and sexualizes all of it (mainly in ch 2).
> 
> terms used for Jon's anatomy: clit, cunt, breasts
> 
> also, check out [carrie's beautiful art of the second scene!!!! <3](https://twitter.com/fav_littleleaf/status/1368042646619488259)

The call connects on the second ring.

“Jon?”

Hearing Mr. Bouchad’s voice, hearing him say his name, shatters what little resolve he had summoned to dial the number. Jon curls up into a ball under his duvet, clutching the edge of it into a fist so tight he can feel his heartbeat pulsing through his palm. He can barely breathe, much less speak. What comes out of his mouth is little more than a choked whine.

“Jon, what’s the matter?” His voice is muffled, enough that Jon can’t parse his tone.

His thoughts run wild. Had Mr. Bouchard gotten up to answer the phone? Or is he still lying in bed, after reaching for his phone on the nightstand? The thought that he could be in _bed,_ asking after Jon… it renders his vocal cords even more non-functional than before.

“Mr. Bouchard, I-I… I’m sorry to wake you —”

“Don’t worry about it,” comes the curt reply. 

A rustling noise follows, something like fabric, and it makes his head spin. He clutches the blanket tighter to his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says again, reflexively, trying desperately to corral words into a logical order. “I can’t… I d-don’t — please.”

“Jon. I need you to take a deep breath.”

Mr. Bouchard’s voice is clearer now; the way he says his name makes him want to drown in it, for it to carry him away like a river, to a place where the only thing that matters is the softness of his voice. Just the thought of it allows sweet, chilly air inside his lungs.

“Yes, that’s good. Can you tell me what is upsetting you?”

“I can’t — I don’t want… to be alone.” His voice breaks on the last syllable, and admitting it opens up a hollow in his stomach. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

A soft intake of breath is Mr. Bouchard’s only response. Jon clings to it, desperate for it to turn into tenderness.

He does not want to, _cannot say,_ I need you.

“Please,” Jon whispers.

It’s more than he can bear when the pause drags on for longer.

“I want to help you, Jon, but I’m not sure how. It is — past one in the morning.”

His stomach twists in both defiance and shame. Hadn’t this been the exact situation Mr. Bouchard had been insinuating when he had pushed his card across the table in that classroom? Is he going to make him say it? _Come to bed and hold me. I want you._

Even _thinking_ those words makes him want to shut himself in a closet and never re-emerge. Tears start to leak at the corners of his eyes, but he’s determined not to make a sound. “I’m sorry. This was stupid of me, I’m sorry for bothering you —”

“Don’t, Jon. We just need to think a bit.”

He buries his face under a pillow and deeply resists the urge to tear his nails off his hands. He should have just — should have just gotten it over with, gone to bed, ignored the twisting gaping maw in his chest and legs and stomach. Now he’s just going to cry, which helps fucking _no one._

“You haven’t done anything to hurt yourself?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes,” Jon breathes.

There’s silence on the other end. Jon clutches the phone harder to his ear and rubs stubbornly at his eyes. Is this information helping him? Does it even make a difference?

Maybe Mr. Bouchard will stay on the phone with him while he cuts — finds a knife somewhere, or another can of Coke. That wouldn’t be _so_ bad, considering the alternatives.

“I’ll come get you, Jon. Hold on for me.”

“What?” Of all the things, _that_ couldn’t be — he must have misheard — 

“Stay on the phone,” Mr. Bouchard says, not cold this time but stern. More rustling sounds follow, as if he’s gotten out of bed.

His head spins, more than it already has been. It feels like his whole body is twisting and twirling in circles, as if he’s on the cusp of wakefulness and sleep. But it doesn’t match up — _this_ world is real. This world is real, and it belongs only in his dreams.

“I-I don’t think… my grandma…”

“It’s all right. Just pack some things and wait outside when I’m closer. Can you do that for me?”

At that small request — the way his voice turns up a little when he says _for me,_ like it would be a special thing to do just for Mr. Bouchard — it breaks him. He starts to cry, curling in on himself once more, folding his arms over his chest, phone nestled against his neck.

“I know, darling,” Mr. Bouchard says softly. “I know it hurts.”

“I need you,” Jon whispers on the crest of an exhale.

“I’m coming as fast as I can, all right?”

The sobs come harder. This has to be a dream too, he knows it does. All the bruises on his body, the missing razor, Mr. Bouchard’s kindness — they’re all dreams, little nightmares that he can shove away and wake up in the morning with nothing more than a headache and a parched throat.

That’s just the way things are.

* * *

Jon waits outside, shivering in the whining breeze. The tears have dried on his cheeks but leave numbness in their wake, casting the street in muted grays and post boxes in slivers of pastel pink. He grasps his pillow hard against his chest. It’s the only real thing in a sea of strangeness.

From behind a bush, a fox stares at him with silver eyes. Jon stares back. It starts and canters away when the low rumbling of an engine turns the street corner. He feels like he should be relieved as the car stops and idles in front of his flat, but all he can summon is a knot in his stomach. He takes a tentative step forward. This is what he wanted, wasn’t it?

The car door clicks open, and then Mr. Bouchard is running to him, all pretenses forgotten. _Jon, I’m here,_ is sweet on his lips as his arms wrap low around Jon’s waist. Jon lifts his arms around Mr. Bouchard’s neck and clings to him, breath stuttering and heaving in his chest. The relief is wild and instant.

“I’ve got you.”

“Don’t let go of me,” Jon whispers into the fabric of his coat.

“Never.”

Jon swallows messily, aching for the touch even as it surrounds him. He doesn’t know when it started, but he’s shaking, trembling, and he holds on as hard as he can. Mr. Bouchard does too, almost crushing him in his embrace.

“You promise?”

Mr. Bouchard sighs against him, pulling him in even closer, raising his arm to cradle Jon’s hair. His whispered _yes_ is gentle across Jon’s temple as Jon turns his face into Mr. Bouchard’s neck, seeking the warmth of his skin and finding it with a soft little sigh of his own.

He says it again, _I promise,_ over and over and over until they’re meaningless syllables stitched together in a language that no longer matters. The only thing that matters is the knowledge:

_I am home._

* * *

True to his word, Mr. Bouchard does not let go. Not when he wraps an arm around Jon’s shoulder to lead them back to his car, not when he takes Jon’s hand once they arrive and climb the steps to Mr. Bouchard’s home. The touch quiets his brain to a distant buzz, like he’s been taken over by something other than himself

He expects to be coaxed into a cup of tea, to _talk,_ and just the thought nauseates him. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as they enter the hallway. Mr. Bouchard squeezes his hand, but he doesn’t stop walking.

Jon’s heart thuds in his throat when they reach the stairs that lead up to a darkened hallway. His mouth refuses to open as he trails behind. His brain isn’t helping either; _where are we going_ turns into _your hand is so warm_ before he can even try to form the words in his mouth.

With each step the world becomes more surreal. Shadows crawl up the walls in sawtooth patterns, whispering to him in words he can’t understand, but the feeling behind them is clear enough: loathing, self-hatred, coldness turned to warmth turned to flame. 

_Why are you doing this? Do you think you’re so special? That this is appropriate?_

_For someone like you to even be here?_

He holds tighter onto Mr. Bouchard’s hand as they pass darkened rooms. He can’t entertain the feelings; they’re too strong for the little pieces that his body is in. He shuts them up inside him, desperate to close them in where they belong.

They enter one of the rooms through a door that lies ajar. Mr. Bouchard pulls the cord and light floods through it — a bathroom, outfitted with marble floors and limestone counters, a clawfoot bathtub against the inner wall. 

On the counter sits a small blade, dusted with pink along one edge, sharp and lustrous silver on the other. Jon stares at it. His brain freezes up with an emotion he can’t name.

“What is this?” he whispers.

“It’s for you.”

At the words, his brain seizes with desire. To rip skin with it, for that pink to run crimson; to summon that clawing agony from inside him and behold it in the light. He shifts on his feet, overwhelmed by the intensity of the feeling. There’s no way he could do this now, not with Mr. Bouchard staring at him like that

His voice is strangely soft as he considers Jon. “Do you like it?” 

“It’s…” Jon clears his throat, warring with the instinct to reach out and _maim._ “It’s, I — ” 

_It’s what you deserve_

A hand on his shoulder startles him out of the vicious thought. “I won’t force you, but if it would make you feel better to do this tonight…” Mr. Bouchard says, his voice dipping low, “I would like to look after you.”

“Y-you mean you… while I…?” He trails off, unable to finish the thought, but Mr. Bouchard just nods, his face infuriatingly neutral

“I don’t know, Mr. Bouchard, I-I —”

“It’s just to be safe. I don’t want you to hurt.” His lips curve up in a gentle smile. “And please, it’s not Mr. Bouchard here. In my house, at two in the morning, I think you can call me Elias.”

_Elias._

The cold reality of it hits him all at once: that he is here, at lord knows what time in the morning, at his teacher’s home, being asked to reach into the deepest part of himself and lay his insides out before him. His pulse quickens in his wrist; lungfuls of air feel like nothing more than teaspoons.

A small voice pokes at his ribs from the inside.

_He wants to look after you._

_He knows you’ll do it anyway and just doesn’t want you to hurt. He_ understands _you._

Jon swallows through the dryness in his throat. “Where do you want me?”

A broad smile spreads over Mr. Bouchard’s face. He moves his hand from Jon’s shoulder up to his cheek, brushing a lock of wayward hair behind his ear, and Jon shivers at the touch. His hand lingers there, warm on his skin, barely a whisper of pressure.

“In the bath, I think,” Mr. Bouchard — Elias — says.

He bites his lip. Mr. Bouchard’s thumb resting over his cheek and fingers curling over the back of his neck _burn_ with intensity despite their softness, prickling over his skin like wildfire. He’s not sure if it will ever stop.

“Okay,” Jon says, small

Elias’s hand draws away, and he feels bereft. His feet refuse to budge.

“One thing, if you would,” he says, the inches between them stretching wide. “I’d like you to take off your clothes.”

His stomach drops. “Sorry?”

“It will stain all over,” Elias says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I, erm… okay.”

It doesn’t really feel okay; it ignites over him and his heart beats harder in his chest. But Elias is right. The last thing he wants to do is get blood everywhere that can’t be washed off, and in such a nice home — _Mr. Bouchard’s home._

Jon reaches for the hem of his shirt. He shivers underneath Elias’s gaze, but his hands move of their own accord, sliding his shirt up and over his chest in a jerky motion. He drops it to the floor, keeping his gaze trained downwards as his fingers fumble at the button of his trousers.

They pause there, feeling at the precipice of some invisible boundary. The marble tile shines as he stares down at it, and the silence of the room chokes around his throat as he tries to breathe. 

“Jon,” Elias says softly. “Look at me.”

The tile begins to spin. Little streaks of grey curling into one massive limb, prepared to strike without mercy. Jon wraps his arms around himself, cold without the protection of a shirt. To scream would be to suffocate, to open himself to its putrid grasp.

Elias steps forward, but does not touch him. 

“Do you trust me?”

Jon sinks into the colour of Elias’s eyes as they meet his. The blue-grey mesmerizes him, drawing his attention away from the rest of the room. He feels fuzzy at the edges, like he’s entered a whole separate world where time has stopped. A clock ticks somewhere beyond the darkness, muted in its eternal rhythm.

What is the shape of the world he left behind?

Is surrender so absurd?

Elias makes a small sound — it might be his name — but he no longer cares.

“Yes,” Jon whispers.

His reward is instant. Elias steps forward, arms outstretched, and pulls Jon in close to his chest. His hands are warm against Jon’s bare skin and he melts into it with a whimper as Elias soothes him, fingertips kneading through his hair. “It’s okay to be afraid,” he whispers.

Jon’s breath hitches at the softness of the words over his temple and the gentle rustle of linen as it crinkles below his cheek. The familiar citrusy scent fills his nose, and he inhales again, properly this time, shifting on his feet to press even closer into the crook of Elias’s neck. The scent, the little squeeze around his waist; they whisper _I care for you,_ and he knows, he _knows:_

Here is the place he is meant to be.

Taking off the rest of his clothes is easy, then. His agency has always been better afforded to someone else.

Elias’s eyes follow every movement of his hands, and the gaze tingles over his skin in a dizzying amalgam of fear and anticipation. He dares to look up at Elias as he finally drops his trousers to the floor. Elias is silent, but his eyes — they _devour_ him, and Jon feels like the bottom of his lungs has been cut out from his chest, leaving him to flail among shallow breaths.

Finally, in just his underwear, he reaches for the bracelet on his left wrist, and unclasps it.

Without the bracelet, he holds out his hand thoughtlessly, searching for something he doesn’t know how to imagine. Elias takes it, like a dancer, leading him to step over the rim of the bathtub. He sits down on the toilet, leaning forward and watching Jon, watching him sit down and shake and wish desperately for home. 

Jon sucks in a breath and lifts the razor to hover over the soft skin of his inner wrist. He’s shaking so hard that the tremor in his fingers is visible, pulse thrumming through his veins, and it frustrates him. Why can’t this just be easy? Why can’t it just _hurt_ , exactly the way it’s supposed to?

This anxiety is familiar; sometimes he can’t stop his nerves from firing in every possible direction, and the only way to stop it is to let it pour out of him, droplet by droplet until it turns into a viscous sludge, slow in physicality but swift in waves of feeling. Still, his hand hovers stubbornly over his wrist, unmoving, just the tip of the blade grazing scarred skin. It’s different, here in this house.

He glances over sharply when Elias stands up. His hands linger over his top shirt button, beginning to unclasp it as his eyes draw Jon in, as his lips part as if to kiss.

His cheeks burn as the initial flush gives way to panic. “What are you doing?”

“Getting in with you.”

Jon coughs, choking on his own breath. He averts his eyes before Elias can undo more than two buttons, feeling flushed all over, and wraps his arms around his knees to make himself smaller. He clutches the razor between his thumb and forefinger for strength.

“T-That’s really not necessary — I’m fine, I just —”

But Elias ignores him, continuing to undress until he’s down to his underwear, and steps into the bath behind him. His knees brush Jon’s back as he lowers himself behind, and Jon’s heart spikes at the feeling of bare, warm skin against his own. This is far more than he knows how to handle.

“Elias, please —”

“Jon,” he says, in a tone that doesn’t invite argument. “Let me help you.” 

Elias adjusts behind him, his legs coming around Jon’s hips to stretch out in front of them, his chest pressing up against Jon’s back. Jon fidgets in front of him; Elias feels _good,_ but also so horribly vast around him, and to experience this with a razor held just short of digging into his skin feels like a special sort of heresy.

Elias nudges his knees apart with a palm, spreading them until they are bracketed by Elias’s, until his elbow and upper arms are supported by Elias’s thighs. In this position, with every part of him held together in Elias’s embrace, it doesn’t even matter that he’s shaking anymore.

He can feel Elias’s arousal behind his back, and it sparks straight through to the throbbing heat between his legs, shame and confusion and desire all relentless inside of him. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, shivering to imagine Elias’s lips over his neck, parting his skin like the sea until he’s putty in his arms. It would be so very easy.

“There we are,” Elias says, soft and indulgent, seemingly oblivious to his conflict. “That feels better, doesn’t it?”

Jon croaks out an affirmative, and he can hear Elias’s smile near his ear. “Good,” comes the whisper. “Tell me if you’re not comfortable.”

Jon nods and dips his head to his chest, putting the thoughts out of his mind as best he can. He tries to concentrate on how it feels so much more stable with Elias’s arms around his waist, bracing against his ribs as if it might keep him from floating away.

He puts the blade into position once more, allows his eyes to flutter closed and intuition to take over. There’s something primal, breathless about this moment; so single-minded in focus that it takes all the haphazard parts of himself and tugs him together into a perfect whole.

The first plunge into unbroken flesh sings with relief. He moves the blade in a slow, aching line, watching the blood rise and blossom as it follows the path of his fingers. Elias’s grasp tightens around his hip, and his breath against Jon’s neck is so _warm;_ all of him is, draped over him so completely that it eclipses the way his body freezes under the razor’s tirade.

The second cut stings and tugs a gasp from his mouth, but it’s the good kind of pain: the kind that makes him want more and more and more until feeling is a distant memory.

Jon tries to lick his lips, wet his mouth in any way to ease the tightness in his throat, but it’s useless. Elias makes a soft noise of contentment near his ear, drawing a gasp from his already parted lips. He starts to kiss Jon’s shoulder, and the slickness of his mouth compared to Jon’s dryness sets his heart alight. Jon shifts minutely, laying his arm down entirely against Elias’s thigh, the heat so radiant between them that he can feel himself beginning to sweat

He doesn’t have the energy — nor even the _desire_ — to tell him to stop; he tilts his head to the side to give Elias better access, distracted momentarily from the blood until a bit of it drips from his wrist to his knee.

“Keep going,” Elias murmurs next to his ear.

Jon obeys, carving third and fourth gashes into his skin, each one pulling him deeper into throbbing agony than the last. Each of the wounds shout at him in tongues like shadows, closing in and swallowing him whole, taking his sense of self with them. 

Chaste, peppered kisses to Jon’s shoulder turn into open-mouthed caresses over the back of his neck, dragging upwards with a hot tongue that makes Jon whimper as he shivers against him. Elias smiles against his neck, takes a bit of aching flesh into his mouth, and sinks his teeth into it, at the same time that Jon presses the blade once more to his wrist. He tilts his head back further by instinct, opening his mouth on a desperate little noise. The razor moves across his skin of its own accord now, sharp not only in steel but in desire and heat and longing.

Elias’s hand dips down over his hipbone as he continues to kiss and bite at Jon’s neck. His other hand smooths upwards, over Jon’s stomach, settling with a firm pressure just between his breasts. Jon can barely hold on to the razor anymore, so close are Elias’s hands to everywhere he wants to be touched. He’s sure Elias can feel his heart pounding under his fingers, can feel the way his hips twitch under his caress. 

“Elias,” he whispers. “Elias, I —”

“Does it feel good, darling?”

Jon sighs, trembling from the exertion and desire clouding his head. He drops his blade hand and lifts his other arm, unable to tear his gaze away from the blood, oozing down his arm until it pools around the inside of his elbow. “I just — i-it’s a lot.”

Elias hums in acknowledgement and drops a kiss to the tender spot where his neck meets his shoulder. He releases Jon’s chest and runs his fingers slowly along the upper side of Jon’s marked arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When they reach his hand, Elias’s fingers curl around the back of his, slotting into the gaps between them like they were made to be there. Elias squeezes his hand, and the pain pulses in his palm and radiates through the cuts on his wrist and forearm.

“I want you to feel good, Jon,” Elias whispers, low and husky. “I want you to know I’ll take care of you.”

“I know.” It doesn’t come out of him in any more than a strained whisper. He’s buzzing with adrenaline, with the kind of reckless hunger that is always followed by regret — yet he can’t be arsed to care. “I… I want —”

“What do you want?”

_“More.”_

His voice and actions are no longer his; they belong to the burning silence of this room, to the deep crimson leaching from his body. To Elias.

Elias smiles, as if he knows this. He takes hold of Jon’s wrist and pulls, dragging it up next to his ear so Elias can press his lips to the inner part of it. Brief at first, gentle, and then open-mouthed, the warm roughness of his tongue lapping up the blood, little hints of teeth making Jon whimper. He doesn’t bother to avoid the cuts and instead seems to savor them, licking and sucking at Jon’s flesh like it’s most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.

This _should not_ feel good, but the impulses of his body take precedence: the panting breaths, the pounding heartbeat, he lets them all through, lets increasingly desperate moans escape his mouth.

“There you are. More room,” Elias says, releasing Jon’s arm, as if it’s eminently reasonable. And it _is._

Jon returns his arm to position, slick with saliva and sweat and traces of blood already rising to replace the old marks. Elias whispers filthy encouragement in his ear and he does it again _,_ once, twice, three more drags along his arm, ecstasy rising in ways that it never does when he is alone. Pain rises over him too, torturous and crashing over him like fire, taking all of his breath away, but he wants it, wants it all; all the oxygen in the world could never be enough. 

He jerks when he feels Elias’s fingers trail down towards his inner thigh, nails digging into his hips on his other side, but Jon doesn’t stop. He presses harder on the blade instead, switching arms and drawing scars on his skin as easily as pencil on paper. He can’t speak above a breathy whimper, above the hot, wet sounds Elias is coaxing from his body as his fingers slide over Jon’s underwear. The blood pools below them, sticky across his arms and thighs, dark and shining.

“That’s it,” Elias whispers, teasing the fabric there, pulling it aside, just short of his slick entrance. “Have you ever done this to yourself? Let something that’s scary and shameful feel _good?”_

“No,” he rasps. “Not like this.”

“We’ll have to work on that, hm?” 

And Elias thrusts his fingers hard inside him.

Jon cries out. His fingers slip on the razor, tearing a jagged gash through already-opened skin. Pain clouds his vision and tears start forming at the corners of his eyes as Elias presses further inside him, exploring the tender throbbing hot walls of his cunt. He bites down on his lower lip to keep from crying out at the intensity of the pleasure-pain, sharp and white-hot in the front of his head, pulsating in a feverish rhythm. 

“Let it out of you,” Elias whispers, with lips tender over his jaw. “Let the pain flow through you. It’s not yours, Jon. You’re just a vehicle.”

He nods as the tears begin to slide down his cheeks, no longer obeying any instruction from his brain. Little whimpers turn into a long string of panting gasps, each with a little bit more voice to them, higher and higher pitched. He pauses only to take heaving breaths that form the only gateway between him and broken sobs.

“Surrender to it.” As Elias presses harder inside him, he slides a thumb over his clit. “I want you to _scream.”_

Jon yelps instantly at being touched there by hands that are not his own. He arches against Elias’s chest, spreading his legs further apart, desperate for the stimulation to take him over until his consciousness shuts down. 

He _cannot_ start crying now.

Elias’s mouth finds the taut line of Jon’s throat, kissing him messily and with intoxicating groans of his own. Jon’s breath hitches and he clutches his injured hand into a fist, digs his elbow into the thick of Elias’s thigh. Elias smiles against his neck and slips another finger into his cunt, thrusting into him so hard that it hurts.

And Jon’s hand matches, slicing into flesh so deep that blood spurts out in rivulets, and shouting is easier then, shouting for everything he can never be, for everything he can never have. Elias wraps his hand over Jon’s mouth with burning fingers and Jon shuts his eyes tight, forgoing breath in exchange for pain as he takes on all the world.

“Yes, darling,” Elias whispers over his muffled cries. “Scream for me.”

He drops the razor as Elias fucks him harder, drops both his arms over the outer side of Elias’s thighs, clutching and scratching at them for purchase. He can feel the wetness of the blood leaking down his arms, and the pressure of his muscles clinging so hard onto Elias sends pain blazing through the entirety of both his arms; a baffling and heady kind of rapture.

It’s too much, twisting and spinning agony that wrenches through him like it’s ripping him in half, jagged, worthless pieces whose only purpose is to carve out the earth in terror.

Jon shouts at the top of his lungs, penetrating the silence of the empty house around them. 

He doesn’t stop shouting when his hand slips on Elias’s thigh and nicks the edge of the forgotten blade on the floor of the tub, not when Elias twists his own hand so hard that Jon’s hips buck against Elias’s fingers on him and inside of him.

It’s only when he comes, with Elias’s name on his lips like a sordid prayer, that the screams turn into sobs.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a mess of WIPs currently but THIS ONE babey is for sure getting finished. ch 2 is mostly outlined and probably about half written?  
> feel free to share what you think will happen ;D
> 
> title from psalm 139, as is most everything from this series


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